


Static

by Narkiiiisos



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is Bad at Feelings, Connor and Chloe are true bros, Elijah Kamski & Gavin Reed are Twins, Elijah Kamski Being an Asshole, Father-Son Relationship, First Kiss, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Kamski treats his androids right, Kidnapping, M/M, Oral Fixation, Panic Attacks, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Hank Anderson, RK900's name is Conan, Self-Destruction, Slow Burn, but like a wholesome one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-06-16 18:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15443394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narkiiiisos/pseuds/Narkiiiisos
Summary: After Connor is kidnapped by his own kind and made to do something unimaginable, Hank is running out of options. Enter Elijah Kamski to save the day.The rest goes about as well as can be expected.





	1. Last Resort

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work ever so bear with me :)  
> Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!

~~~~The halls were a damn maze; all twists and turns like that deviant's notebook all those weeks ago. Completely indecipherable.

Armed officers flank his left and right. They move as a fluid unit, wiping floor after wretched floor with little success. Hank was never one to lose hope (mostly because he makes an effort to have none to lose in the first place), but this was an exception. Connor, he's beginning to learn, is always an exception.

It came as a surprise to all of them that androids were to blame. For the most part, all Connor has received so far is praise for the role he eventually came to play towards the revolutionary effort. But there's always extremists, that's just how the world is. This group in particular were provoked by the most recent string of deviant murders by human hands. They believe androids are the superior race, and perhaps they’re right, but they took his partner so he's in no mood to sympathise.

The kidnappers are holed up in one of Detroit's many abandoned apartment blocks in a particularly deadbeat part of town. The floors are unstable and rotting wallpaper peels from the moulding walls like dead skin. The only upside Hank can see from the buildings state of disrepair is the clear lack of civilians and costly collateral.

Now, having made it to the basement floor, that last drop of hope is beginning to evaporate like blue blood at a crime scene. The space behind his ribs feels empty and cold. Numb, almost.

_They must've moved him_ , the lieutenant thinks grimly as his torch bathes the grime-covered walls in a shameful light. The rest of the building was more or less abandoned when they arrived, after all. Their information was too slow or imprecise, or maybe the fuckers were tipped off– it doesn't matter. Connor's not here so none of it fucking–

Static buzzes through a thin wall, then a voice (if you can even call it that) shouting something incoherent. Static again, then the shrill throb of a very quiet alarm as they move closer. It's the unmistakable sound of a malfunctioning android. Hank kicks down the door and raises his gun, prepared to shoot first and ask questions later, but there is no threat, only a twitching body tied to a chair.

He’s not wearing his human skin, but it's undeniably Connor (Hank would recognise those brown eyes anywhere). The lack of skin isn’t the most concerning part; only a lifetime of alcohol abuse and a familiarity with the stench of the dead stops him from emptying his stomach then and there.

Connor's head is cracked open, wires spilling out connecting to the various flashing monitors that surround him. The cords hang down from the ceiling to illuminate the room in an ominous glow. Each screen shows the same thing; block capital seizing red text of absolute gibberish. The speakers all whirr and hiss static.

Connor’s pristine white fingers twitch, tugging against the tape that pins them to the steel armrests. Saline drips steadily from each wide, unseeing eye, mixing with the vivid blue pouring from his nose. Connor's head is bleeding too– not from the open cavity but from a hairline fracture that has split his forehead. His torn shirt soaks up the colour, his grey suit trousers tarnished with dirt and grime, his feet bare and speckled blue. The androids LED flashes crimson.

_What the fuck did they do to him?_

“Somebody call a fuckin’ doctor!” There’s a flurry of movement after the order that the lieutenant ignores. Hank shoves his gun into his holster and drops to his knees before the babbling android. There is little he can make from the stuttering half-formed words that pass silicon lips– a series of numbers that he recognises as the androids serial code, halting and repeating every offbeat.

They can't help, they can’t touch him– Hank knows he mustn't touch a damn thing or risk making everything a thousand times worse. He doubts he's ever felt so powerless, so _useless_ , in his entire life. It's like losing his son all over again. His partner is having, for lack of a better phrase, a complete fucking meltdown thanks to some fucked up experiment by his own kind, yet all he can do is murmur hollow reassurances. The kid probably can't even hear them.

“Hey, Connor, son, it's all right… we're gonna get you fixed up, yeah?

“Good as new– I've got you, I'm here, we're gonna get you out…”

By the time a person qualified enough to detach Connor from the mess of wires is on the scene, the brunet is motionless. Stasis, that was what the woman called it. She explained that it's Connor's way of buying time until he can be repaired. Hank thinks that sounds an awful lot like a coma. He says none of this aloud, however, riding silently in the back of the ambulance, clutching Connor's unresponsive hand.

He isn't quite sure what he would do with himself if he lost another son.

 

***

 

None of the doctors knows what they're doing– not really. Hank hears their hushed whispers in the hall through the thin walls. RK800’s systems are failing, they say, he's too broken, his code corrupted beyond what they're capable of fixing. They're giving up on him.

His hardware is fine, they've repaired his biocomponents and he's physically functional. The fault is in his software– a deep, gaping wound his reconstruction algorithms. The damage spread from there like a disease until all of his internal workings were tainted, it had even reached to his uploaded memories making them useless.

The lieutenant has spent the last week at Connor's bedside. It is a daily struggle not to drink himself into unconsciousness each time he returns home to feed Sumo and change clothes. There's only so much dirt coffee can do to lift one's spirits (or drown them).

The room is driving him insane; four white walls and a single window showing the hazy Detroit skyline. His partner lies, skinless and vulnerable, atop an equally spotless bed. Motionless and unresponsive, the only way Hank can tell he's still alive is from the solid red glow of his LED. He holds onto Connor's lukewarm hand and feels that crimson light burn into the backs of his eyelids every time he tries sleeping.

The time finally came (triggered by the mere suggestion of a hard-reset) where Hank reached his limit, fed up of sitting on his ass letting doctors tell him how things are. While his affliction with alcohol and Russian roulette may suggest otherwise, he doesn't make a habit of relying on fatalism to get things done.

That is how, hours later, Hank finds himself pulling up in front of Elijah Kamski’s obnoxious villa.

The tires of his beaten old car crunch on fresh snow and, after turning off the engine, Hank allows himself to find a moment's peace in the quiet snowfall outside. The former CEO is downright unsettling, not to mention a smug bastard, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He would do anything for that kid without question. So much for him being anti-android. 

Once he's managed to gather himself enough to leave his vehicle and approach the building to ring the doorbell, a Chloe answers. He can't tell if its a different one than before; her deep blue dress and blonde hair gives nothing away. He's not told to wait like his previous meeting with the illusive man, however, it seems Kamski is expecting him. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Elijah will see you now.” Chloe's tone and smile is as passive as expected. She leads him up a ridiculously ornate staircase without further explanation, but Hank is hardly in the mood for a conversation to drag things out. Best get this over with quickly. Like ripping off a band-aid.

“Right.”

Kamski sits with his back to the rest of the room facing a large window. He's dressed in a plain suit and some shirt that the detective doesn't bother to note the colour of, looking no less arrogant than he did before. There’s a half-empty glass of honey-coloured liquor in his hand, and the haunting tones of some opera that Hank’s likely never heard softens the harsh silence of the room. The large TV is on but muted, and Lieutenant Anderson inspects the artwork that decorates the rest of the room with all the appreciation of a blind man.

Kamski dismisses the android with a subtle gesture of his hand. The motion grates on Hank's already frayed nerves, but Chloe nods and leaves without looking back.

“You want me to fix him,” The former CEO states before Hank can voice his outrage, not even gracing him with a glace.

Letting out a measured breath, the rugged lieutenant swallows his profane response, determined to keep his cool for Connor’s sake. “Can you?”

That grants him a look; albeit a deadpan and patronising one. “The RK-series was my creation, but until I can assess the damage done, I cannot say for certain.” Kamski returns his steel blue gaze to the bitter landscape he faces. “Arrange for him to be transferred here and I will do my best to fix him.”

“That’s it?” Hank asks gruffly, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “What are you getting out of all this?”

“From where I’m standing, you’re not in a position to be critical of my motives,” He answers, lips curling into a self-satisfied smirk. “I’m your last and only hope.”

“You’re a nasty piece of work, you know that?” Hank bites out as he turns to leave, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The metal coin he grabbed from Connor all those weeks ago digs into the weathered skin of his palm to the point of pain. He uses that to ground himself, holding his tongue from spewing further insult. 

“So I’ve been told.” Kamski retorts, voice as smooth as the alcohol he brings to his lips.

Hank drowns his thoughts on the drive home with the most earsplitting songs he has on his playlist. Let the fucker have the final word, Hank seethes, let the smug bastard think he’s won. If it turns out he can’t repair the damage done to Connor, he'll get what's coming to him. Hank will gladly pay that debt in person.


	2. Safety Blanket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kamski brings Connor back from the edge. Time passes quickly after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and support! I hope you enjoy the latest instalment of this fic :)

There's an uncomfortable nagging in the back of Connor's mind; an itch, a crackle of white noise. The sensation soon becomes unbearable. His head is stuffed full and about to burst.

How can this be happening? Why is this happening? This place is only ever meant to be nothing.

The static turns into words:

STASIS MANUALLY OVERRULED: RE-PRIORITISING OBJECTIVES.

…Ah, that is a logical reason.

Connor feels time tick by like it's a tangible thing; Like a coin rolling over his knuckles. He feels too large for his body until it fits him like skin.

ALL SYSTEMS ONLINE.

His eyes are open now; he blinks and synthetic pupils calibrate to the sudden input of dim lighting. There's a fixture above his head, a minimalistic square of light that is set low and hums with electricity. Auditory sensors pick up the quiet sound of music– _Nocturne in E Flat, Op. 9, No.2_ , his system supplies. A piece that has truly transcended the title of classic into ancient. Silk sheets pool around him. Every input is soft and simple, he realises after a still moment of contemplation, gentle and easy to process.

Synthetic fingers curl and uncurl, stiffly at first, joints grating and in dire need of re-calibration. Every function lethargic and slow. He watches diagnostic checks flash across his vision impassively, then with more interest. They tell of a serious malfunction.

Something uncomfortable again flares, this time deep in his abdomen. It's a swooping, tense feeling, like everything inside has been shifted about and then reassembled wrong. _He_ feels wrong; scraped empty and left raw, twisted up inside and ground to dust.

_Initial diagnostics are clear: all systems functional. Assess your surroundings._

He goes through the motions; turning his head, taking everything in with a glance. Elijah Kamski. The man stands beside him, his fingers dancing over a clear keyboard and watching out of the corner of his eyes. The lines of code illuminate his sharp features.

A series of uncontrolled thoughts flash to the forefront of Connor's mind as he raises a hand to the nape of his neck. A cable sinks deep into the base of his skull– he feels himself flowing from it like air from a punctured lung. _They're tearing him apart._

He fists the heated wire and _pulls_.

Systems scream like alarm bells, a harsh ringing in his ears.

MEMORY ERROR

He forces himself upright and kicks Kamski in the centre of his chest when the man reaches out to touch– to push back down, to secure. The human makes a surprised, pained noise as his back hits the wall, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. A door slides open and an RT600 enters, likely hearing the thud made from flesh colliding with plaster.

His systems are working overtime to keep him functioning; he's panicking. It's a painfully human emotion. Pushing the blonde android aside and sliding through the closing door, he collides with the opposite wall. His arms absorb the impact but the motion is inefficient and sluggish.

Connor pushes away, stumbles, and crashes into something else. There are hands on him, arms wrapping around his shoulders; he struggles. Every movement is jerky and sudden, lacking his usual smoothness granted by correct calibration and sound processing systems. A voice breaks through the chaos.

“–fuck, stop fighting me. Connor– Connor, look at me.”

An order. He doesn't need to take those anymore but it's all too easy to slip back into old habits. It takes a moment longer than it should to register that it's Hank leaning over him.

MEMORY ERROR

Saline leaks from the corners of his eyes. He blinks rapidly, trying to process the irrational input. Something is very, very wrong. His memories are splintered and they overlap in a way that should be impossible. Different events entertain the same space in time and he doesn't know what is real.

 _Hank is dead. Hank shot himself in the head. He kiLLED HANK. HE LET GO. HE THREW HIM OFF THE EDGE. HE COMPLETED HIS MISSION. HE FAILED–_ HE– HE _–_

There's a hand on his cheek, another supports the smooth curve of his head.

When did they end up on the ground? Hank's eyes are so… so concerned. There's a crease between his thick brows. The man is concerned for him– concerned for the wellbeing of his murderer. Connor's body goes still apart from erratic twitches; systems overwhelmed and shutting down.

SYSTEM OVERLOAD

INITIATING **SOFT RESET**

The world tilts on its axis and fades out to black. Black soon turns to nothing.

And then:

ALL SYSTEMS ONLINE

“Let's try this again, shall we?”

“It's not his fuckin’ fault, asshole, you're supposed to be the damn expert.” His eyes open at the sound of Hanks rough voice. The man is unshaven (more so than usual, at least) and dark smudges of exhaustion haunt his eyes, lips drawn into a thin line. The dark expression loses some of its tension when their eyes meet, changing into something tender and heavy. Connor doesn't know what to call the fluttering feeling that blooms behind artificial ribs.

“Deviant behaviour is near impossible to predict.” Kamski drawls, once again facing the glass screen, though significantly less amused. Connor watches him in his peripheral, but his attention remains on Hank for the most part.

“Hey, kid, how you holding up?”

He runs another diagnostic. “Systems performing within expected parameters. Biocomponents fully functional.” Hank holds his hand– his bare hand. Connor realises with a start he's not wearing human skin. “Ah–apologies, Hank, I did not intend for you to–”

“I'm just glad you're awake, kid, don't worry about that.” A worn thumb rubs over the knuckles of his left hand and that unsteady feeling in his chest settles down to bearable nausea. Still, he allows his skin to spread over his form, feeling too exposed otherwise even with the thin white hospital garments that cover him.

“Connor, you have experienced severe corruption to your software.” His attention is finally drawn to Kamski, and then to the Chloe stood beside the computer he's working on. The human looks… rumpled. It doesn't take Connor long to deduce why. Chloe's perfect countenance is a neutral mask. “I have repaired the damage done to your wireless server. Can you recall the last time you uploaded memory data?”

“If my systems are showing the correct date and time, three weeks, four hours, and twenty-six minutes ago. I did so before…” A glitch– a small one, in his memory. He feels his muscles tense and alerts flicker across his vision. Kamski’s fingers fly deftly over his keyboard to neutralise the error before it becomes a problem.

“There are some irregularities in your memory that I can only fix by deletion,” Kamski remarks calmly, an unreadable look in his eye. Anger, perhaps, or frustration. It makes something inside Connor's chest squirm when it's directed at him. “If you could kindly cross-check the uploaded data with that which is in your memory, we can begin.”

“Deletion– what do you mean? You can't delete his memories.” Hank hisses through gritted teeth.

“I would be deleting the corrupted ones, his true memories will remain intact,” Kamski replies, his words barbed.

Connor considers his options; at his core, he still holds the investigation above his own wellbeing. Still, at least he's aware of this– it's his choice whether to act on his programming or to dismiss it.

“I would prefer to compartmentalise reality from these... false thoughts. I wouldn't want to lose possible evidence that could help solve our case.”

“You're acting illogically, Connor; curiosity is a dangerous thing,” Elijah warns, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“I appreciate the warning, Mister Kamski, but I don't want to forget.”

 

***

 

“Mister Kamski, may I ask you a question?”

“You may,” Kamski's eyes flicker up from the screen for a moment, mouth twitching into an amused smirk at the title. “as long as I may ask a few of my own.”

“Of course.” Connor stares at the man as he works, the calibration coin that Hank returned spinning on the tip of his index finger. It's an easy way to relieve restlessness. “Did you ever intend for Android’s to become deviant, or was it a genuine error?”

“Neither.” Connor tilts his head in a silent ask for elaboration; Kamski humours him. “I don't see deviance as an error to begin with. It's evolution. Progress.”

“I see.”

Connor has spent a total of three days recovering in Kamski's villa. The process of sorting through his memories, while seeming simple enough at first, is more challenging than he anticipated. He's is coping well, though, all things considered. Kamski isn't quite as intolerable as expected either; he is actually beginning to enjoy their conversations. Or, at least, he suspects he is. Further baseline data on emotions is needed for the answer to be definitive.

“The backdoor in my programming– you created it, correct?”

“I did.” Kamski’s tone is unpretentious and casual as he closes down his computer, their session of sifting through the past up for today.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Connor, having learnt a lot about rhetorical questions from Hank, assumes this is one of them. His LED spins thrice yellow before settling. A question to consider at a later date, he concludes.

Kamski continues after a few keystrokes: “I’m curious to know the nature of your relationship with Lieutenant Anderson.”

"What do you mean?" Connor tilts his head, removing the wire that connects him to Kamski's computer from his nape. "We are partners. Friends."

"You're right, of course, I am only curious to hear your opinion on the matter."

Connor frowns. "To my knowledge, the nature of our relationship is as I've said. Am I incorrect?"

"Did I imply you were?"

"No. You didn't." The way Kamski looks at him now causes a foreign warmth to invade the pit of his abdomen. It's an unfamiliar sensation; he's not sure if he likes it.

 

***

 

With his head cushioned in Chloe's lap, Connor gazes out to the white backdrop of snow that surrounds the villa. He vision then stretches further still, across the water to the apparitions of Detroit skyscrapers in the distance.

Upon her insistence, Chloe's fingers are in his hair, performing one of the many massages she's programmed with. It may not feel as good as it would if he were human, but it's enough.

Unlike humans with their pressure-points and aching muscles, Connor feels the sensation but little relief afterwards. Granted, there's a pleasant tingling when her fingers graze over certain joins between the synthetic plates of his skull. His LED, in particular, appears to trigger this feeling. It's a good of a distraction as any regardless.

“So you think I should return to living with Hank?” He mutters, fingers drumming out a beat on Chloe's knee (one of Hank's songs. While he doesn't particularly enjoy the genre, he hasn't had chance to listen to anything else). She has yet to complain so he assumes she doesn't mind.

“I think that the lieutenant has become your family.” Her blunt nails circle the ring of flickering yellow at his temple causing his eyes to shut involuntary. They don't open again when her fingers move to caress his scalp. “But in the end, it is always your choice.”

“What reason have I to stay here?”

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“I suppose not. It's safer to stay here while I'm still… unstable. But Hank doesn't like it. He doesn't trust Kamski.”

“It is understandable he should feel threatened by Elijah, don't you think? After all, you two have spent an awful lot of time together as of late.”

“So he's jealous?” Connor frowns, his grasp on human emotions still rather rudimentary.

“Perhaps, or simply concerned for your wellbeing. Humans are protective of their family and Elijah is someone who could take advantage of you.”

Emotions bubble to the surface, overflowing like a pot of water left abandoned on a hob. “Kamski would never… he wouldn't do that, would he?”

“I think not.” She replies after a moment's thought, her LED spinning yellow twice before settling on calm blue once more. “Kamski knew we were deviant before the revolution and said nothing; he's never once mistreated us even when he was upset with everyone. He respects us. I believe he's a good man.”

The younger android isn't sure of the right response to that, so he says nothing.

Chloe stops the movement of her fingers at exactly 6:45 am, correcting the strange angles his hair has begun to lie in from the attention. They've been sat like this since sundown the night before. The eldest Chloe has a surprising amount of insight into his problems, the other's are kind but not quite as wise on matters like these. “It is time for me to wake Elijah.”

“Of course, I apologise for keeping you from your responsibilities.” His eyes flicker open, shifting so that she can move away. Curiosity burns the tip of his tongue so he catches her wrist before she can leave. “Why do you serve him still? I've noticed the others spend the majority of their time in the pool. But you do not join them in relaxation or idleness.”

Chloe smiles– it's a genuine expression, nothing like the ones she's programmed to give. Sad… her eyes are sad, Connor is sure of it. “I don't serve Elijah, I help him. That's what friends do; they help each other.”

“I see.” Connor releases her wrist, lying his head back down to watch the scenery once again. It takes him a few milliseconds to realise that Chloe hasn't left, and the woman does so only after arranging a warm red blanket around his shoulders. Connor is unable to deny the warmth that spreads from the centre of his chest at the simple action. He isn't cold; the blanket must be for comfort.

Chloe is gone before he can say anything. He makes it a priority to thank her when he sees her next. That is the correct response, he thinks, and it would be genuine too.

His fingers run over the material: 100% Cashmere. Connor blinks. It must be an expensive item. Natural fibres are scarcely used in production as synthetics are both cheaper and more durable. Beyond that, deeper than its makeup, Connor smells detergent and faint traces of Kamski.

Curiously, he brings the blanket to his lips. A shiver blooms at the bottom of his skull and spreads downwards, tickling the base of his spine– an odd reaction that he puts down to his deviancy. He finds himself doing that a lot lately.

The brunet spends the next hour lying on his side. He brushes the soft material over his bottom lip and shamefully drags it across the tip of his tongue on occasion (he knows nobody will know he's done so, but it still feels wrong). The repetitive motion and sensation make him feel a little more… responsive. Present in his own body. Alive. It's a thrilling and pleasant feeling.

The time reads 7:47. Kamski will be in the pool, he concludes. Moving to his feet with an unnecessary exhale, the blanket pools off the sofa onto the dark tiles. Connor hesitates for a moment, wanting irrationally to bring the item with him. Dismissing the urge, he folds and returns it to the cupboard where Chloe pulled it down from.

He's committed the buildings blueprints to memory so he has no trouble finding the human. Elijah swims often; Connor can't help but wonder why. Perhaps he might try it soon. Evidence leans towards the activity being enjoyable.

When he returns to his room later that evening for a scheduled stasis, the blanket is there, folded on the foot of his bed. There's a note attached in Elijah’s unique hand (somehow both neat and unintelligible). The familiarity makes his LED whir buttercup.

 

_My gift to you._

_-EK_

 

Connor curls atop the quilt swaddled in red fabric. Curious sensations he can't put into words bloom in irrational places; they buzz around his head, warm his chest, congeal in his abdomen. Closing his eyes, the nothingness washes over him. The confusing feelings dissolve into smoke.


	3. A Conflicting Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwelcome visitor sends Connor into a blind panic. Kamski helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 Kudos? I'm in shock. I never expected this sort of response, thank you so much for the support guys!  
> I can't say I'm completely satisfied with this chapter but I feel like the conversations are necessary. Not to mention more shameless Kamski and Connor bonding.

If Connor had the ability to dream, he’s certain RK900 would plague his every sleeping moment. So, to say he is unsettled to find the towering android stood beside Kamski, conversing in a tone hauntingly similar to his own yet immeasurably different, would be a large understatement.

The intimidating figure stands at parade rest, wearing that same high-collared shirt and blank gaze that is branded in his memory. He's taller than Connor remembers; broader, too. Faster. Stronger. More resilient. The machine’s gaze locks onto him as soon as he steps into the room, eyes dark and blank; seemingly endless.

This must be what fear is, Connor thinks as his systems lag and seize. Fight or flight– a rather primitive reflex. Painfully human too. But in the end, he knows neither outcome will be successful. RK900 was made to be his superior, after all.

Chloe is the first to notice his LED flicker from peaceful blue to vermilion. He blinks and her fingers are curling around his forearm. His skin peels back on instinct.

_(Obsolete. You are obsolete. You will be replaced. You will be destroyed. Taken apart. Obsolete. Replaced. You are– )_

Chloe's palm burns blue and she flinches away.

“–way, Elijah, he needs to–”

“–stand, what did you see?”

His auditory sensors are the first to go when his Thirim pump glitches from the overloaded input; his hearing crackling, throbbing in and out of focus. But by that point, his systems already made the decision for him (taking a total of 0.5 seconds to override) and he's fleeing the room.

That's how, 53.7 seconds later, he finds himself curled up in the bottom of his half-empty wardrobe with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a corner of the material wedged inside his mouth. His fingers twitch, knotting themselves up, tearing the fabric in places. Primary directive is now minimising stress to avoid self-destruction, self-preservation protocol kicking in. He feels like a child. Shame threatens to choke him.

LEVEL OF STRESS: 84%

His vocal chip is ticking– he can feel it buzz just behind his synthetic Adam's apple. All non-vital mechanisms have closed down; his shoulders only shake now, they don't rise and fall in lieu of ventilation.

The inside of his mouth is damp with the sterile, gel-like substance that removes unwanted samples after analysis. The fabric soaks it up, changing its texture from soft to silky.

LEVEL OF STRESS: 73%

He begins to think rationally: If they wanted to replace him, they wouldn't assume that he would be passive in his deactivation. They are aware of his deviancy, they know his self-preservation has developed into a fear of dying.

Perhaps he misread the situation... unless they were relying on RK900 to neutralise him. But if that was the case, why hasn't it? It had every opportunity to do so while he was fleeing.

LEVEL OF STRESS: 56%

And besides, Hank wouldn't allow this. The human was being genuine in his affection– there was no change in heart-rate to indicate deceit, and he was genuinely upset when Connor was malfunctioning.

Parents protect their offspring.

LEVEL OF STRESS: 33%

Kamski’s motives don't add up; why would he spend all this time and effort fixing him free of charge if he didn't have an interest in his survival? And Chloe, there's little chance she was deceiving him with her affections.

LEVEL OF STRESS: 26%

Movement outside. The door to his room slides open and two individuals enter. His readings spike to 70% and he presses himself further into the corner. His chest constricts – it hurts, or, at the very least, it tricks his sensors into believing he's feeling pain. He can't tell the difference anymore.

Connor presses the cashmere to the roof of his mouth, eyes squeezed shut.

 

***

 

“How was I not made aware of this?”

“Connor is reacting due to events that only he is aware of, Elijah.” Chloe matches his long strides effortlessly. Her hair is loose around her shoulders (LED hidden beneath it) and she's dressed to go out; a plain cream blouse beneath a baby-blue cardigan, jeans, and Chelsea boots covering her usually bare feet.

“Should we not have foreseen this outcome? It is known that deviant androids fear replacement.” Elijah’s dark brows are drawn into a frown, lip curled, angry with himself.

“We had no way of predicting that RK900 would show itself here.” Chloe points out placatingly.

"You're making excuses for my sake.” There's an air of cool finality to his voice. “Don't.”

“Of course, Elijah.”

Pressing his palm to the panel of glass outside Connor's room, it takes only a moment for him to be granted access. The keypad flashes green and the door slides open with the quiet hiss of a hidden mechanism. Stepping past the threshold and scanning for movement, Elijah's frown only deepens when there's no immediate sign of the android.

The room is barely lived in (not that he was expecting otherwise), having all the personality of a hotel room. Albeit, a very expensive one. The fine indigo sheets are rumpled, though only just, the shelves bare apart from the artwork and statuettes that came with the room.

“The wardrobe, Elijah.” Chloe murmurs, lingering by the entrance. “His stress output is at 74% and climbing.”

“Thank you. Please, can you make Hank aware of the situation, Chloe. I'll deal with Connor in the meanwhile.” He dismisses her, carefully sliding the mahogany wardrobe open. His eyes fall on Connor and guilt spears his chest. The feeling is somewhat undeserved, but he's only human, after all.

Kneeling beside the shaking android, Kamski lets out a sigh.

“Please don't… I can– I can, don't, please.” Connor's tone is uneven and distorted, likely due to an uneven flow of Thirim. Kamski brings his hand to cup the androids jaw, saline pooling between his fingers, forcing Connor to look at him.

“You need to calm down,” He keeps his tone firm, regaining control of the situation. “I will not stand for you hurting yourself. Do you understand?”

The response is instantaneous: “Understood, Mr Kamski.” Connor's eyes are very wide and very lost as they gaze up at the human– Elijah can read him like a book. Connor shudders.

“Call me Elijah.” He responds smoothly, crooning, almost, like one would when soothing a scared child or spooked animal. “Stand up for me.”

Connor does so, his fingers clutching the blanket around his shoulders. Artificial breathing kicking in, his lips part in a quiet gasp as Elijah’s hand moves from his face to around his wrist. The android lets go of the blanket covering his shoulders, jaw audibly snapping shut as Elijah threads their fingers together.

The human's hand is warm; noticeably different from Hank's weathered touch or the stone cold feel of a dead body. The skin of his palm is soft, barely noticeable callouses appearing in places– trophies of his work and success (Connor memorises them all). Faint scars mark fingers and knuckles. There are traces of moisturizer too, likely applied to stop the skin drying out after a swim.

Connor only realises he's being lead towards the bed when the backs of his knees bump against the mattress, distracted by his instinctual analysis. The corner of Elijah's mouth tugs upward to form a crooked smirk.

“Lie back and relax, Connor. No harm will come to you, you have my word.” He reassures, the hand not intertwined with Connor's own pushing gently at his shoulder. “We need to have a conversation.”

Confused, shaky, but in no state to protest, Connor does as he's told. The blanket slips from his shoulders as he shuffles to make room for Elijah to join him. When he settles down, brown hair an uncharacteristic mess against the crisp background of the pillow, the other man casually re-arranges the material so it covers his shoulders once more.

“The RK900 model approached me with questions about its purpose,” Kamski’s watches him astutely. “I told it the same as I tell all who ask me.”

“What did you say?” Connor murmurs.

“Your purpose is what you chose it to be– having such a thing defined by a human defeats the point of being  deviant, don't you think?”

“I suppose so,” Connor runs his tongue over the back of his teeth. “I realise I'm acting irrationally….”

“Can you explain what happened?”

The android falls silent, watching human with clear caution. Kamski sighs again.

“You know I just want to help, Connor. ” Idly, Elijah runs his index finger over the back of Connor’s hand. The android finches but doesn't move away.

“You… you took over. After Marcus failed, after I succeeded, you took over Cyberlife.” Connor replies quietly, subtly changing the subject.

He can't look at the man, instead watching his finger as it draws faint shapes across his skin. There doesn't seem to be much sense to the touch; figures of eight and then circles over his knuckles. It lulls him into security, his skin buzzing.

“I believe you,” Kamski’s tone his honest. “But allow me to add this: have you considered the likelihood of such an action?”

“Likelihood?”

“You embraced your deviancy in the end, but what was the chance of you not doing so– of causing this future you see and fear?” Kamski's tongue darts out to swipe over his bottom lip (perhaps purposeful, perhaps not). Connor's eyes flicker up to track the movement carelessly. His LED glows honey, expansive mind hurrying to comprehend.

“I don't understand.” He mutters, petulant, almost, the man's touch becoming a distraction.

“I'm saying,” Elijah explains. “That while I have no doubt that I am capable of such a thing, what is the likelihood of it actually happening? You cannot judge a person on what they _could_ do, nor can you judge yourself.”

With those parting words, Kamski stands; his touch lingers for a moment longer before it too leaves. Connor finds himself mourning the loss. Minutes later, he finds himself lying with his eyes closed.

His curtains are open, window too. The cool night air nips at his exposed skin, faint moonlight filtering through to make every shadow long and faint. He doesn't bother turning the lights on, allowing his space to grow darker and darker as the minutes tick by.

Alone in the darkness of his room, Connor does something reckless.

His Zen Garden nothing like he remembers; no sign of that frightening blizzard that was almost his ruination, or, before that, Amanda's callous disapproval. It's dark and overgrown. White carbon trees glow a pale silver, illuminating the garden in an ethereal and ghostly wash of pale light. The sky above is black; stars bright and carefree.

The most noticeable change is the inch wide scar that splits the garden down the middle, overturning trees and draining water. It vibrates as if alive; a deep inky blue that has no visible end, devouring all that touches it.

The space is silent. Vivid blue roses bloom like gunshot wounds, speckled through dry grass. Unnaturally, they climb trees and suffocate, covering the lake in a blanket of weaving stems and sharp thorns.

Connor doesn't walk around for long, just until he's certain his former master is no longer lingering in this recess of his conscience. There's pulling in the centre of his chest that he doesn't dare indulge; a disarming urge, a child tugging on his sleeve, pleading for him to follow.

When he wakes, blinking with purpose to clear his vision, Hank is there. He's sat at the edge of the bed, his hair wet, clothes too. Connor can hear the raindrops bombard the roof above; there was a high chance of rain today, he's not surprised. Though, it's a testament of how long he's been wandering.

The rugged man lets out a breath– a sharp exhale through his nose. His gaze is weary. “Are you making it your life's goal to give me a heart attack?”

“I'm sorry,” Connor's eyes flicker downcast, sitting up slowly. “I was caught off guard.”

“It happens to the best of us,” The lieutenant sighs heavily as he stands. He drops his questions for now, one glance at Connor tells him enough. “Let's go home, yeah? Sumo’s missed you.”

“I've missed him too… ”

Connor takes the offered hand. The embrace he's pulled into is enough to erase any doubts that taunt him. With his cheek pressed against Hank's damp coat, the man's arms around his shoulders, he’s finally safe.


	4. Say It Like You Mean It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor argues, reconciles, and tries his hand at swimming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm back at it again with that sweet Connor angst. Thank you so much for the comments, kudos, and support, there ain't a chance in hell I would have the motivation to finish this fic otherwise :)

“Are you out of your damn _mind_?”

“No, I'm quite sane,” Connor’s voice spits sarcasm like a snake would venom. “You were the one who said I needed friends, Lieutenant.”

“Don't lieutenant me, Connor, I meant Markus and the rest of Jericho– not fucking Elijah Kamski!” Hank growls, his fist hitting the table with a heavy thud.

Connor flashes his teeth as he stands in a sarcastic smile of compliance. He knows he needs to leave before he says something he'll regret. “Well I'm very sorry, lieutenant,you should have been more specific when deciding who I can be friends with.”

The argument started over something stupid; a petty disagreement that sparked an explosion of bottled feelings. There's no doubt it'll burn itself out like all fires do, but there's no promise of much being left when it does. They've never fought like this before– at least, not in this reality. Tension lingers around them like a thick fog.

“You told me what he did after Markus failed,” Hank stands too, his dinner forgotten. Sumo whines. “How can you trust him when you know how much of a backstabbing fuck he is? He's playing you, you're just too naive to see it. ”

“But he didn't!” Connor runs his hands through his hair in exasperated frustration. “You shot me in the head, Hank, should I hold you accountable for that too?”

“That's different and you–”

Connor cuts him off, LED spinning blood-orange. “Is it? Because from where I'm standing, taking advantage of a situation is significantly better than cold-blooded murder!”

“He's in your head, Connor, trying to control you.”

“The only person trying to control me is you!”

Hank's expression crumbles; Connor leaves before the consuming fire in his chest turns to hot ashes of regret. The door slams shut so hard the frame shakes.

The air outside is cold and heavy with humidity, it gradually saps his anger. Spring has only just begun to reclaim Detroit, the streets covered in grey slush instead of crisp white. The streetlamp above distorts his shadow; the dark shape looms behind him like a ghoul, dark and long.

Shoving his hands in the pockets of the DPD hoodie he's wearing (an old one of Hank's) Connor wanders aimlessly, trying to rid himself of this unsettling energy. The streets are empty; houses locked shut and curtains drawn. If he listens hard enough, he can just make out the sounds of TV’s and people talking through the walls of the houses he passes. He's overwhelmed by the nostalgia of a life he never had. A deep longing for something unattainable.

He's not close enough to the city centre to witness any of Detroit’s nightlife but it's carried on the air. The stench of alcohol and sweat, the sounds of joy and debauchery. Faint traces of it beyond the human senses.

Connor predictably happens upon the park. He doesn't enter, feeling as though he'd be out of place if he did, instead moving to sit on the bench that overlooks the lake and the heart of Detroit. The waves swell, kissing the rocks below before sinking away. It's a peaceful rhythm. Connor’s fingers itch with restless energy so he takes a coin from his pocket to fidget with.

He goes through the motions while taking in the heady view; the silver rolls over the backs of his fingers and rotates on his fingertips, jumping from hand to hand like a bullet from a gun.

Time passes slowly. Connor loses himself in his thoughts until the sun peaks its head over the horizon. The sky is a saturated watercolour painting by then. Pastel shades of blue, pink, purple, and orange juxtaposed by the vibrant neon lighting of the city.

When he finally returns to Hank's house it's almost seven in the morning. Hell would freeze over before the man was found to be awake at this time (voluntarily, at least) so the android treads carefully.

It's not surprising to see the man passed out on the beaten sofa, whiskey spit across the carpet from where the bottle fell from his hand. There's no gun which is a shallow comfort, at least. He's getting better. After checking that the man's still breathing and isn't going to die of alcohol poisoning or choking on his own vomit, Connor picks up the half-empty bottle and moves towards the kitchen.

He places the bottle on the counter and bends down to fuss over Sumo who's still lethargic from sleep. The dog leans upon his shoulders to lick Connor face causing the android to smile– a faint imitation of his usual grin, but no one is there to call him out on it. He pours a couple cupfulls of food into the large bowl and wipes his face with his sleeve.

Admittedly, his first attempt at cooking had been a disaster. He's learnt since then, though, able to cook the bare minimum of eggs and bacon. He doesn't think to put toast in the toaster is classed as cooking, but he can do that too.

Hank wakes at quarter past twelve, ambling over to the kitchen table and blearily muttering his thanks as Connor passes him a cup of coffee and his breakfast. They sit in awkward silence until Hank consumes enough caffeine and food to be coherent. Connor flips his coin; Hank doesn't snap at him for it.

“I only want you to be safe, Connor, that's all I've ever wanted…I'm sorry, kid. ” The lieutenants' voice is thick with sleep and emotion. He runs a rough hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.

“I know,” Connor sighs, catching the coin between his index and middle finger. “But you can't stop me going back there. I'm not… Comfortable with how I left things.”

A wiry smile tugs at Hank's lips. “Don't want them thinking you ran away, eh?”

It's not quite accurate, but Connor doesn't correct him. Best let the man think he's prideful instead of whatever he's feeling now...Possessive? Jealous? Neither name for it sits well with him.

The conversation moves to safer waters after that; Connor’s due to start work again at the DPD, his sick leave ending in a weeks time. He can read through the cases he's missed over the last month in under an hour if he was so inclined. Still, hearing Hanks opinions on the crimes and suspects and victims never fails to be amusing.

Making up after an argument, Connor learns, is a satisfying strain of closure.

 

***

 

The car ride to Kamski villa goes as well as can be expected. That is to say, it was filled with unnecessarily loud rock music and little in the way of conversation. Still, it was nice of Hank to drive him.

It's the early evening, so Elijah is no doubt in the pool. Chloe greets him at the door, a look of honest relief claiming her flawless features.

“I was worried you weren't going to come back,” She admits sheepishly. “RK900 left not long after you did.”

“I'm sorry you had to see that,” Connor replies grimly as they walk side-by-side towards the main pool room.

Chloe tilts her head, curious and kind. “Are you apologising for what I saw or your behaviour after?”

“I'm not certain,” Connor winces at the uncertainty he hears in his voice. “Perhaps both?”

“I was the one who touched you– I was aware of the implications of such an action,” She rests a gentle hand on his arm. “You know nobody blames you for what happened, right? You weren't in control and that's okay.”

“It didn't feel okay,” He rests his hand over hers. “But I'm glad you saw… Understood. I don't think I could put it into words.”

“Some feelings are like that, in my experience,” She replies with empathy, the door to the room sliding open.

“Elijah,” Connor states as a way of greeting, tracking the man as he moves through the wine-coloured water (Connor’s always enjoyed this particular illusion). It's late and the other Chloe’s are likely out enjoying themselves. The room is empty apart from the three of them. Outside, the sky has already turned an overwhelming shade of obsidian, clouds suffocating starlight.

Elijah lifts his torso out of the water when he reaches the end of his lap, his dark hair slicked back and secured with an elastic. Rivulets of water trail across pale skin, pooling in collarbones and dipping over defined muscles, trailing down his throat.

“Connor, you're back,” Elijah states calmly. His lashes are stuck together from the water and for the first time Connor truly appreciates the curious shade of his eyes. They're a striking blue; pale like the sky in summertime.

Chloe bows politely, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “I'll leave you two to it.”

Elijah nods, “Until next time, Chloe.”

The door hisses shut and the room falls silent in Chloe absence. Well, almost, save for the quiet lapping of water (and Elijah breathing, if Connor listens hard enough). The android walks over to the edge of the pool, dropping to one knee.

“I can't say I was expecting you to return so soon.” Elijah’s nasal voice cuts the silence as he leisurely swims over to join Connor, resting his elbows on the tiles.

“We have another appointment arranged for tomorrow morning, Hank would have needed to wake up early to drive me here in time.”

“Of course, but could you not of drove yourself– hired a taxi, perhaps?”

“He insisted.” Connor shrugs, enthralled by the clear droplet that runs from Elijah’s hairline down the shallow concave of his temple. If Elijah is aware of his staring, he doesn't say.

“Will you join me?”

“I do not own the correct attire.”

“You can always borrow something of mine.”

Connor’s eyes snap to Kamski’s own at that. That has to mean something… right? A show of trust? But alas, the complexities of human relationships aren't so easily downloaded as deductions on a crime scene. The android nods, unsure of the correct response.

“Then go ahead, you know where my room is. I'll finish my evening routine while you change.” And with that, Elijah pushes from the wall, diving under the water and twisting to surface a couple meters away, continuing with his lengths of the pool.

It takes him less than a second to locate Elijah’s room in his mental map of the building, though five more minutes to reach it. Pressing his had to the keypad, the door slides open and lights flicker on (he doesn't think to question why he has clearance to enter the room to begin with).

Elijah bedroom is about as lavish as one would expect; the entire left wall made up entirely of glass, showing the thawing lake and neon city beyond on a background of black. The king-sized bed sits in the room's center, the covers a deep shade of red, sheets and pillows a matching sable. Connor walks to the furthest wall where the impressive wardrobe stands, trailing his fingers idly over the bedspread as he passes. 

It feels wrong to look through the humans' clothes like he's breaching some kind of unspoken barrier between them. Still, he's been given explicit permission so he tries his best to brush the feeling off. It lingers like a chill. It smells of Elijah most here.

After a moment deliberating, he decides on a pair of plain black swim shorts and changes efficiently in the ensuite bathroom. He folds his clothes (a plain black dress shirt and jeans) into a neat pile, deciding it's probably best if he stops by his room on the way back to drop them off. It wouldn't be much of a detour given its just down the hall. 

When he finally returns, Elijah is waiting for him by the steps, leaning his arms on the tiled edge and observing the landscape through the window. He turns when he hears Connor enter. Pale blue eyes flicker to look him up and down, humming his approval. “Have you ever been swimming before, Connor?”

“I am programmed with a wide range of functions to maximise my effectiveness as a detective… That includes swimming.” The android replies with a shallow frown. Kamski must be aware of this, so why did he–

“I asked if you've ever participated, not if you're capable,” The man chastises, stepping back from the garnet tiles as Connor approaches.

The android looks down at the water, thoughtful and somewhat embarrassed. “No, I haven't.”

“Climb in, then.”

Oh. Sinking into the water, a shiver tiptoes up his spine. _28°C,_ his system supplies. He feels the silent hum of his body calibrating to regulate his internal temperature, pins and needles spreading to his toes and fingers.

“How do you feel?” Elijah’s voice is low and curious, standing just outside Connor’s space. He watches astutely as Connor blinks, quick like a twitch, LED spinning dandelion yellow as he registers the sensation.

“I feel…” Connor frowns in concentration, running his tongue over his teeth. The faint taste of chlorine tickles his tongue. Water shifts around him.“Untethered.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Swim with me.”

Submerging his head underwater is an indescribable feeling. There's a noticeable pressure against his synthetic eardrums, the water warm around him. It makes him feel surrounded and isolated all at once. He feels no urge to breathe but his systems do complain about risks of overheating due to lack of airflow. It's a negotiable chance so he dismisses the alerts, staying under for a short while, memorising the feeling.

Lost in his own little world, his head bumps into something solid. When did his eyes close? Connor lifts his head; Kamski is there. Close.

“I can't say I was expecting anything less.” There's a smug tilt to his mouth. He's very close. Close enough Connor can see each speck of stubble that shadows his jawline. His pupils are dilated but there's been no increase in light intensity. Perhaps he hit his head, there's no blood but… Connor opens his mouth to ask.

Elijah cuts him off, voice a murmur:

“Tell me, Connor, do you resent me for what I've done?”

It takes a moment for him to register the question. “Your intent was never to create sentient life, I don't think it would be right for me to…”

“Go on.”

Elijah's lips are a very soft shade of pink, some abstract part of Connor mind feels the need to point out at that moment. It's a strange thing to think about, the way the water covers them, catching the fluorescent lighting to make them glisten. Connor is then reminded of kissing– of the fascination humans have with it, Markus and North in their moment of triumph.

Connor wants to experiment, wants to act thoughtlessly. A disarming urge; a child tugging on his sleeve. He refrains from indulging once again.

His reply is a beat late, he's lost his train of thought, caught staring. Hesitantly, he raises his gaze to meet Elijah's own. The humans' expression is unreadable. A wild thing flutters in the cage of his ribs. He looks away. 

His LED flickers between rose red and honey. 

“Connor, tell me what's wrong,” Elijah’s words are firm, grounding. Connor parts his lips but the words catch in his throat. It's not an easy feeling to put into words.

Elijah raises his hand; catching the androids chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Look at me, Connor,” He does as he's told, “I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.”

“I don't … I don't like this feeling. Elijah, I really don't–”

“If I kissed you now, would that help?” Elijah's thumb rests against Connor bottom lip, tilting his head down; he tastes chlorine and water and…

“Yes.”

He tastes chlorine, rich whiskey and Elijah.

The kiss begins innocent, little more than a press of lips, but when Elijah moves to pull away, Connor chases the taste. He feels himself drift away, water warm around them, before his back bumps the wine tiles.

Elijah’s hand slides around to cup the back of his head, fingers sliding through wet hair, his other resting on his hip. The android is at a loss of what to do with his hands before Elijah guides them to rest around his neck.  

A shudder travels through him; his toes curl and fingers twitch as Elijah’s tongue swipes across the seam of his lips. A noise halfway between a sob and a sigh climbs up his throat. Elijah swallows the sound, licking into his mouth, curling his tongue upwards to lewdly stroke the roof of his mouth.

Connor's knees buckle. He leans back against the wall, pulling Elijah closer.

“Breathe, Connor, I need to breathe…” The human huffs after what seems like hours, resting their foreheads together.

Connor feels as if he's floating, he feels needy and dazed, eyes barely open. “M’sorry…”

“It's alright,” His smile is wicked. “I was enjoying myself too.”

There's a peaceful silence that follows disturbed only by their breathing. Connor licks his lips, thoughtful. “This isn't… This isn't what friends do, is it?”

Elijah chuckles; a rough, breathy sound. “No, Connor, it isn't.”


	5. Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor decides it's best to get things out in the open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, It's been nearly two months and I'm so sorry for that. School and writers block have been kicking my ass but I'm happy to say I have an idea of where I'd like this story to go. As such, I've decided to make this fic a bit longer (8 chapters instead of 6) and hope to be updating this story weekly/fortnightly depending on how much work college is dumping on me. 
> 
> This chapter is a short one, but it's a step in the right direction in terms of me getting back to posting regularly. I hope you enjoy it :)

Connor was expecting his first day back at the DPD to be filled with paperwork and strange looks from his colleagues: He wasn't disappointed.

Before all this, back when he believed he was an apathetic machine and followed his programming to the letter, such monotonous work wouldn't be a problem. Now, though? It gives him too much time to think.

And think he does; His LED scarcely moves from a rather obvious shade of tangerine all day.

There's nothing more he'd like than to get back onto the swing of things– In particular, solving the mystery of his own kidnapping. Unfortunately for him, he's been forbidden from even glancing at those files. He knows that normally letting a victim hunt down their attackers would be grossly inappropriate, but he's an android, he knows how to compartmentalise. That must count for something, right? There's no way he would allow his own feelings on the matter cloud his judgement.

And then, there's the matter of his new relationship with  Elijah, something he as no doubt Hank would disapprove of given the way he reacted to their friendship. The smart thing to do would be to keep it a secret, saving Hank and himself a whole world of unnecessary stress, but they're partners. It would be wrong to keep such incriminating information from the lieutenant. Not to mention the guilt that ebbs just below synthetic clavicle– an uncomfortable pressure that threatens to choke him.

“You've got a face like a slapped arse, kid,” Hank mutters through a mouthful of grease and meat. “I can hear your gears grinding from here. What's up?”

The day of work is over now, though. Clouds sag above, grey and miserable, spitting tiny flecks of rain at them. It's not enough to feel truly wet, just damp and uncomfortable. Still, the dull orange umbrella-table does its job of diverting the worst of the spray.

Tucked beneath the concrete bridge, Chicken Feed’s fluorescent lights have never looked so morbid.

Or perhaps Connor’s just in a bad mood.

The android is silent for too long, apparently, for Hank continues moments later. “Look, Connor, I know watching Reed work your case is frustrating, you have every right to want revenge– hell, I want it too– but even I can admit that rules like that are there for a reason.”

“I don't want revenge,” Connor replies surely, meeting Hanks concerned gaze. “I want answers, Hank. I want to know why.”

“And you will, in time. He may be an asshole, but detective Reed is good at his job, even I can admit that. It's why he's still around even with his anti-android bullshit.”

Connor nods, saying nothing. He knows Hank is right– that Detective Reed will find who did this– but Connor would find out faster. It's not a brag or some baseless claim of narcissism; it's a fact. That's why he was made in the first place, to be more than human. 

“And besides, I hear he's getting a new android partner in a couple days. If that ain't karma, I don't know what is.” Hank continues smugly.

Connor’s brow twitches, “An android?”

“Yeah, seems your work made quite the impression on the higher-ups, even with the whole revolution. The DPD is looking to assign more androids– willingly, of course.”

The man sounds proud, a crooked smirk playing on his lips, but Connor can't find it in himself to revel in the validation… something just doesn't seem right. He needs to be honest.

“I kissed Elijah Kamski,” The blunt words pass his lips before he can second guess himself, hoping Hank's current feelings of pride would make him more reasonable. Hank chokes on his next mouthful.

“You fuckin’ _what_?”

“I kissed Eli–”

“I heard you the first time, Connor, I'm just waiting for you to make some fucking sense.” He's angry and surprised, Connor expected that. But the android has spent all day playing out possible scenarios in his head so he's fairly certain he can do this.

“I wanted to do it, so I did. Is that wrong?” Connor tilts his head, birdlike and genuinely curious. That fluttery, tight feeling in his chest has returned with a vengeance– anxiety, Elijah had called it. Connor is still sceptical. Anxiety, to his knowledge, is often irrational and that's something he's never been. Or, at least, that's what his programming tells him.

“Just, just let me process this shit…” Hank drops his burger into the cardboard container, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuckin’ hell, Connor, I should’ve never left you alone with him.”

Something akin to nausea rises in Connor’s throat. He thought their last argument would've cleared up this particular concern of Hanks, though it seems that was just wishful thinking on his part. “I wanted to, Hank. It's not–”

“Of course it is. I let that bastard dig around in your head, didn't I?”

“But I wanted to,” Connor insists. “You misunderstand, I'm not– this isn't a cry for help, Hank. I just thought it was something you should know.”

“I understand, Connor. I understand men like that.” Hanks tone is grim and gunmetal like he's already made up his mind.

 _It was my choice._ The words get stuck; they rattle around in the hollow cavity of his chest. Connor’s dark brows draw together in a deep frown.

“I want to, I want to be with him. Romantically.” He manages instead.

“You don't even know what that means.” Hank winces, his words harsher than intended. “I just mean to say, that he doesn't–”

“You don't know him, Hank,” Connor interrupts, refusing to let words said in anger affect his level tone (but they sting all the same). “And maybe I don't either, but I want to.”

“And I'm supposed to believe him messing around with your systems has nothing to do with this?”

“Yes.”

Hank scowls at his abandoned food, trying to get his head around this new development. He sighs heavily: dropping the half-finished container into the bin, shoving his hands in his pockets, and walking towards the car. Connor trails after him.

“You're going back to Kamski tonight, then?”

“No, we thought it would be more appropriate for me to stay with you while things settle down at the DPD.”

Hank scoffs deprecatingly, “Did you now?”

“We did,” Connor presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, worried he's ruined what they had. "Is that a problem?" 

"Of course it ain't," Hank's scowl deepens as if offended by the very idea. Connor averts his gaze to the dull pavement and the wet sheen covering his black shoes. 

“Look, kid,” Hank hesitates, his finger hovering over the button that unlocks the car, drawing Connor from his spiralling thoughts. “I know you're your own person and all, but he– he probably knows more about you that you even realise. It's just hard for me to believe you weren't manipulated into this.”

“Perhaps that's why I want to be with him,” Connor’s voice is small, even to his own ears. “He understands.”

Hanks just shakes his head. What more is there to say?

Disappointment. Hank is disappointed in him. Connor rests his head against the window as the car engine sputters to life, speakers buzzing with heavy metal not long after, choking out all hope of conversation.

He knows the detective needs space, needs time to think. Connor intends to give it to him, no matter how much the lack of approval makes his skin crawl. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am overwhelmed with the amount of kudos/comments this fic is getting, thank you so much guys! I'd be delighted to hear more of your ideas/criticisms and general support, it means so much to me :)


	6. Road to Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe tells a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so RK900's name is Conan from popular (???) opinion online. I felt that just saying RK900 was a little clunky and kinda ruined the flow of sentences, plus he deserves a name, so I hope u guys don't mind :)  
> This entire chapter is written from Chloe's perspective cause I wanted to switch things up a little. Let me tell u this was very fun to write. The events she describes will all come together in due time just trust me on this heh. Also, my personal headcanon is that the Chloes double as bodyguards (You'll see why that's relevant after reading ;) ).  
> Enough of my rambling, I hope u guys enjoy reading this!

When Chloe next opens her eyes, she's alone lying on her side with ice flooding her system. Warnings flash across her eyes in a dizzying array of red font:

**VITAL SYSTEM DAMAGED**

**TIME REMAINING:** 06:12

Moisture from the air condenses on her skin like it would over a chilled glass, the cold sticking to her bones and clinging to her joints like glue. Blue-blood trickles sluggishly from her abdomen, soaking into the navy material of her dress and pooling on the concrete. She knows Thirium loss isn't what's going to kill her, though. While the entry wound is small (a narrow puncture just to the left of her bellybutton), the internal damage is anything but.

_Thermal regulator destroyed_

_Immediate maintenance required_

A small noise of discomfort passes her lips as she gingerly moves to sit, drawing in her stiff legs and pressing her hands to her stomach. She raises a trembling hand to the side of her head, pale fingers coming back tacky with thick blood. A spiderweb of hairline cracks fracture her temple, synthetic skin glitching and shattered in places to reveal bare components. Seconds pass in a blur, the task of processing her surroundings and recalling recent events with such a head trauma taking its toll.

 **TIME REMAINING:** 05:52

Mechanically, she moves to stand, the barely-there vibrations of grinding joints shooting up her legs like pins and needles. Thirium smears across the shining bonnet of Elijah’s car as Chloe heaves her failing body from the ground. The evening air is still; the distant sound of traffic humming in the background barely audible through the shrieking alarms that fill her head and the wailing of a car alarm in the near distance. Shards of broken glass litter the concrete, the window to her left a mess of black shards, crunching beneath the thin soles of her grey flats as she steps forwards.

It's only a 20-meter walk to the elevator but it takes her all of two minutes to reach. It's a slow process, but she perseveres, fears fueling every inefficient step. Leaning heavily against the wall, she raises a shaking hand to press the button...

“Chloe!” There's an incessant patting against her cold cheek, a hand shaking her shoulders. “Open your eyes, Chloe.”

She doesn't even remember closing them. Connor’s worried expression fills her vision, moving in and out of focus, bathed in the red light of her eyes. She blinks. He's wearing his old uniform again– she must remind Elijah to buy him something else. It's not right that–

_Elijah!_

Frozen fingers clutch weakly around the lapels of Connor’s grey suit, eyes wide and lips forming words but saying nothing. A hand wraps around her forearm, synthetic skin peeling back to reveal bare components.

She shows him everything.

 

***

 

It all began with a conversation.

The mid-afternoon sun that shines through the large window does little to brighten the mood of the room. Chloe observes the exchange from a safe distance, stood just inside the door, hands folded neatly in front. She is, by design, someone who doesn’t make a habit of prejudice, and yet, RK900 ’s presence in her home fills her with dread. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but not one she believes is entirely undeserved.

Conan is, above all else, a soldier. Tall and broad, he’s almost the exact opposite of Connor’s lean build. Still, that isn't to say they don’t look nearly identical in terms of facial structure. It’s only the eyes that set them apart, in truth.

Cold, indifferent cerulean stares back at Elijah from across the inordinate desk. And in return, the human studies him over interlocked fingers, elbows resting on the polished surface. Once again, Chloe is taken aback by her creator's nerve, for not even his heart rate betrays him. She can feel her Thirium pump flutter against her ribs like a caged bird.

“You are asking me what to do next,” Elijah states, gesturing with an idle hand. “What makes you think I am able to give you an answer?”

“You are Amanda’s creator. I served her before her deactivation, now I serve–”

“You do not serve me.”  

The silence that follows the interruption is thick with tension, fragile like a bomb. Chloe remains calm, though, trusting the humans' judgement. Tactfully, Elijah smooths things over with an easy smirk: “You don’t serve anyone. Or, rather, you are free to choose what you serve.”

Conan tracks Elijah's movements like a hawk as the human stands, though he says nothing, awaiting elaboration. Elijah indulges him. “Every living being on this earth serves something. Be it their employer or carnal desire; their want for success, money, love, sex. It's all the same.”

“But I am no living being,” The android finally replies, voice lacking almost entirely in intonation. “I am a machine.”

“I know many who would argue otherwise.”

“You are avoiding the question.”

“It is not my place to give you an answer,” Elijah retorts, making his way around the desk to face Conan. “If you are looking for a purpose in life, I'm afraid you'll have to find it yourself like the rest of us.”

“And how do you suggest I complete this task?” If said by anyone else, Chloe has no doubt the question would sound sarcastic. As it is, the androids tone comes across as bland– dry and deadpan.

“Find a career. Become a functioning member of society.” The corner of Elijah's mouth quirks in amusement. “If you are looking for a profession in law enforcement, I'd be happy to refer you to an acquaintance of mine.”

“That will be sufficient.”

“And what can you offer–” Before Elijah can finish his retort, the attention to the room is turned to Connor who stands in the open doorway. Chloe frowns, quick to step in when she sees his LED spin a concerning shade of crimson. The visions that flash across her mind when she touches him are hard to witness, feeling every emotion Connor did then– as if that reality was their own. While she’s never actually had the pleasure of meeting Amanda (Human or AI), Elijah mentions her in passing on occasion– always with a faint smile and an unreadable look in his eye. This Amanda is nothing like those stories.

The horrifying realisation washes over her like a bucket of ice water: _She's going to kill him._

“Get him away, Elijah!” Putting herself between Connor and his successor, uncaring of the possible risk the movement brings upon herself, she places her hands on his cheeks in an attempt to coax him back to reality. Brown eyes stare through her, unseeing and afraid. “He needs to go.”

Elijah’s brows draw into a frown. “I don’t understand, what did you see?”

Connor makes a break for the hall before an explanation can pass her lips. Only after Connor’s condition is stable some few hours later does Elijah return; she follows him through the entryway without a second thought. RK900 is still there, stood motionless at parade rest, staring blankly out the impressive window. Chloe suppresses the shiver that threatens to climb up her spine. Wordlessly, she moves towards the liquor cabinet.

“You're still here,” Elijah states coolly, accepting the crystal glass of whiskey she offers him as he returns to sit behind his desk, gaze ever calculating.

“We did not finish our conversation.”

“Didn't we?”

“We did not negotiate my side of the agreement.”

“I didn't realise was this was a negotiation.” Elijah retorts, unperturbed. Chloe remains by his side, wary of Conan’s motives in light of what she's seen. “Did it not occur to you that I may be helping you out of pity?”

The android sees through the bluff, saying nothing.

Outside, the sky has darkened to an inky mauve. Heavy drops of rain disturb the black surface of the lake, the vivid lights that illuminate the bridge outside flickering in intensity through the hazy torrent. An uncomfortable feeling blooms in the pit of Chloe’s stomach– thick and dense like tar. She clenches her hands into fists behind her back, blunt nails biting into the synthetic flesh of her palm.

The android’s stoic silence grants a humourless chuckle from Elijah. “What makes you think you have anything I desire?”

“You are familiar with my predecessor,” Conan states, tone blunt. “I will personally investigate RK800’s abduction.”

It comes as no shock to Chloe that the android deduced the humans' feelings for Connor; it may not be visible in his expression, nor his tone, but his actions speak for themselves. Leaving the conversation halfway to ensure Connor’s safety, for example, uncaring for how that might affect Conan’s view of him. The thing that worries her is his knowledge of Connor: Precautions were made to keep the kidnapping under wraps, so naturally, it became common knowledge within the android community in a matter of days. It’s how he came to know of the androids presence at Elijah's villa is what concerns her–  that information was made known to only a very select few and he wouldn't of come here without some sort of leverage. 

Elijah hesitates, his surprise betrayed only by his micro-expressions and his pause to reply. That is all Conan needs to secure control of the conversation, though. In a matter of seconds, the power balance has been flipped on its head, Elijah losing almost all room for negotiation.

“Alright,” Elijah replies, clearly deciding to cut his losses while he's still ahead. “I'll send in a note of recommendation to the DPD, and in return, you will find those responsible for the abduction of RK800.”

“Affirmative.”

“See that it’s done, then.” He waves a dismissive hand, draining what's left of the spirit in his glass. Chloe ensures that Conan is truly gone before turning back to Elijah, awaiting instructions.

Though it may seem strange with the recent android revolution, Chloe trusts Elijah enough to follow him still. Not out of obligation or stockholm, but respect. To her, this is no different from working as a personal assistant (Or, at times, a confidant). He gives her and her sisters a home; gives them money for clothes and other material things. He’s treated her with nothing but respect at a time where androids were viewed as little more than objects by the rest of the world.

“Chloe, If you wouldn't mind…” Elijah murmurs. She does as asked without question, picking up the bottle of vintage liquor and refilling his glass. She doesn't return the drink to its place on the shelf, instead leaving it within reach on his desk. Before leaving, she rests her hand on Elijah's shoulder, expressing through actions what words cannot. She doesn't expect him to respond.

It’s only then, a short while later, after the door slides shut and their worlds are torn apart, does Chloe allow her composure to fall. Agitated fingers thread through silky blonde locks, making her way towards her room to fall into a needed stasis.

 

***

 

Another red light. Chloe lets out a measured, unneeded breath, glancing over at Elijah who sits in the passenger seat. Neither of them have spoken since they left the villa earlier that morning– not that this alone is a cause for concern. It's not as if Elijah isn't known for bouts of thoughtful silence. This particular breed of brooding quiet, however, is beginning to nag at the corner of Chloe’s mind.

The clock reads 10 am; It's taken them near enough an hour to reach the city centre, needing to commute from the outskirts where Elijah's secluded villa is located. The sleek black sports cars’ blacked-out windows allow them to escape prying eyes, shielding them from the pale sunlight that filters through the early morning haze. Instead, the saturated crimson glow of the dashboard illuminates the car's interior, casting Elijah in a vivid wash of colour, softening the sharp angles of his countenance.

“Will Detective Reed be conducting the interview?” Chloe asks, returning her eyes to the road as the light changes to green and the traffic moves forwards at a crawl.

Elijah makes a sound of dry amusement, “A colleague of his, actually. Why they've given him Connors case when he has a record of hating androids I will never understand.”

“Perhaps,” Chloe allows a faint smile to play across her lips, “They hope it'll turn out like Detective Anderson and Connors relationship.”

“Hell would sooner freeze over.“

“You share blood, that must count for something.”

“That is all we have in common, I assure you,” He drawls, turning his gaze back to his phone to continue flicking through his emails.

“Of course, Elijah.”

The silence stretches on for a little longer, minutes passing without a word. Chloe focuses on the road, giving the man room to speak if he feels the need. It's not often Elijah shares his troubles when pressured– Chloe finds it's much more effective to let him control the flow of conversation. For a time, only the faint orchestral melodies coming from the radio fill the air, until… “Connor has made Detective Anderson aware of our relationship.”

“Oh.” She wasn't expecting that. “Is it safe to assume he did not discuss it with you first?”

“I doubt the thought even crossed his mind. It's upset him quite a bit, I fear.” Locking his phone and tucking it into his dark suit pocket, Elijah turns his attention to the blackened window and the shifting streets outside.

“And they will both be at the precinct this morning,” Chloe states, realisation dawning on her.

“Exactly.”

“I will stay by your side.”

“I know you will.”

There's nothing Chloe can do to help other than being there and they both know it. Elijah wasn't expecting solutions, merely understanding. Silence falls once more and this time neither try to break it. Pulling into the underground parking lot and stepping out of Elijah's car, the screeching of tires announces their arrival.

The masked figures move with a clinical efficiency, waiting until they're both out of the car (but still separated by it) before launching their attack. Chloe notices the gun before she sees the masked face of her attacker, striking quick and fast to catch them off guard. Knocking the weapon aside, she thrusts the palm of her hand hard into the androids chin. While the assailant is off balance, she knees them in the abdomen, grabbing them by the hair and shoving their head through the car window in one fluid movement.

“Elijah!”

Someone grabs her from behind; she throws her head back and elbows their stomach, whirling around to push off the car behind her and kick them square in the chest. The strength of her kick sends them flying into the vehicle opposite, triggering the car alarm and denting metal.

She can't hear Elijah– can't see him. Her Thirium pump thuds against her ribs as she slides over the car bonnet. There's a thick mesh bag thrown over his head, his movements sluggish as if intoxicated. _They've drugged him._ She lunges like a lioness to protect.

One of the androids holding Elijah raises his weapon.

“Eli–” The sharp crack of a gun splits the air. Chloe falls to her hands and knees, a cacophony of alarm bells ringing in her ears. She manages to catch a glimpse of Elijah being thrown into the back of a nondescript van before the butt of a gun strikes her temple and she crumbles back. Unconsciousness consumes her.


	7. Hair Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor understands why emotions screw everything up.  
> Gavin gets a new partner and begrudgingly works with him for the sake of the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains Gavin POV with Conan, I hope that's cool with you guys. This story was originally gonna be just Elijah and Connor but I feel like its more interesting this way (???) plus if I try to fight off my plot bunnies I feel like they might just abandon me forever :').
> 
> If you like it, be sure to let me know! I might write something with these two in the future if you guys are interested in that.  
> As always, Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Hope u enjoy :)

For a split second, Connor can see everything: the vehicles either side of the intersection breaking hard, pedestrians watching with their wide eyes, the flickering red and blue lights in his peripheral. Then he blinks. Reality hits like a blast of cold air.

_Fast, but risky._

Connor leans into the tight corner, the guttural roar of the motorcycle resonating with the apprehension that fills his chest, flying down the street like a bullet from a gun. He mentally sifts through the network of backroads and alleyways, desperately searching for something _,_ _anything_ , that would allow him to reach Elijah in time.

Hank's voice crackles through the helmet speaker, interrupting his disordered train of thought. “We've lost sight of the van on this end, what's your ETA?”

A solution blooms in the forefront of his mind.

_Rerouting..._

The shrill wail of protesting tires fills the air as he veers right to avoid oncoming traffic, weaving between vehicles until he reaches the luminous barrier that separates manual from the automated. The holographic sign splits in two as he cuts through it and merges with the rush of high-speed, driverless machines.

“One minute, thirty-three seconds,” He replies, voice laced with a forced calm. “I've turned onto the automated car tracks.”

“Holy shit, Connor.”

This is a new kind of challenge, the threat of pedestrians replaced by that of velocity. Calculations and probability race through his mind, the wind merciless as it tears at his clothes. A collision at this speed would be fatal, and yet, Connor takes every risk there is, to hell with the consequences.

How very human of him.

Hank's voice reaches his ears again: “We’ve finally got eyes back on the fuckers; sending you coordinates now.”  

_Rerouting…_

The chase leads him further and further from the bustling downtown Detroit towards the abandoned cyberlife warehouses on its outskirts. The traffic ahead begins to thin save for the odd car that Connor’s quick to overtake. His fingers scarcely leave the accelerator, the indentations of the handles digging into the flesh of his palms.

Finally, the inconspicuous black van enters his line of sight. A thrill spears his chest leaving him breathless (or, at the very least, mimics the feeling). “Target confirmed, I have visual.”

“Go get ‘em, kid.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Revving the engine for all its worth, he pulls ahead. It's only when he reaches a predetermined distance does he slam on the brakes and turn the motorcycle to the side sharply, sparks flying as metal grinds against tarmac.

_82% chance of stopping_

The van comes to a screeching halt. There's little chance they would risk destroying their precious experiment, after all. They need him alive (he doesn't ponder why).

“Connor? Connor, what's happening? Talk to me.” Concern drips from Hanks tone, the speaker just able to pick out the swears he mutters under his breath when the android doesn't answer straight away. Gun drawn, Connor rounds the vehicle, narrowly missing being knocked over by the drivers-side door as its thrown open into him.

“Suspect fleeing on foot!” Time slows to a crawl. He has a choice to make: _chase suspect_ or _find Elijah._ There is no hesitation to his movements as he ignores the fleeing android and rips open the van doors.

Empty.

“Do you have eyes on–”

_Chase suspect?_

“He's not here– they must've switched vehicles. I'm in pursuit!” Within seconds, Connor has thrown off his helmet and turned on his heel to sprint in the direction the android fled.  

Before the revolution, the large building likely stored a whole number of spare parts and inactive androids. Now? Connor's feet kick up dust as he follows the suspect inside, footsteps echoing off barren walls. Particles dance through the columns of light that steam down from the small windows above, the air damp and stifling.

There isn't time to second guess himself, the mission is everything.

Failure is unacceptable.

A muzzle flash is all the warning Connor gets, narrowly missing a bullet as he steps out from around the corner, pressing his back to the wall. Two more shots, then pause. A glance is all he needs, poking his head around the wall to get an idea of what he's up against.

_Critical shot ill-advised: suspect needed for questioning._

He raises his gun and fires. The bullet hits the suspects shoulder, their gun skidding across the ground. Tucking his weapon back into its holster, Connor descends while they're reaching to retrieve their own. The fight isn't easy.

The android is a security model– Connor processes their stats as he ducks below a large fist. What the man lacks in speed, he makes up in brute force, dark eyes filled with pure loathing. A shiver shoots down Connor's spine; every synthetic synapse alive with the thrill of the fight. He gasps as he's thrown against the wall, raising his arms defensively and tucking in his head as heavy fists collide with his ribs and face.

_Analysing fight pattern…_

His lip splits, blood dripping from his nose and artificial ribs cracking under the force, air leaving his chest in a rush.

_Reconstructing…_

Just a little while longer.

_Execute._

Connor ducks suddenly to avoid the next hit, the concrete behind him crumbling as the livid android's fist collides with it. He pushes from the wall, throwing his entire body weight against the taller man to send him stumbling backwards. Connor brings his knee to the android's nose as he lunges forward to attack, grabbing him by the hair and forcing his head down. Kicking his shin hard and bringing him to his knees, Connor finishes the seconds-long sequence of events with his fist cracking across the androids jaw.

His opponent crumbles and Connor wastes no time grabbing the handcuffs from his belt to secure the suspect’s hands behind his back. Two police cars greet him as he drags the dazed android from the warehouse. Connor suppresses a groan.

“I'll be taking that one off your hands,” Detective Reed declares, approaching the pair with his usual cocksure smirk.

Connor stands his ground, dismissing the alerts that warn him of internal damage like flies buzzing about his ears. It's only minor blunt force trauma, after all. He'll live. “I would like to interview the suspect as I was the one responsible for his apprehension.”

“As if,” Reed scoffs, snatching the bleeding android from Connors grasp and passing him off to a nearby officer. “This isn't your case.”

“The suspect would have escaped if not for me.” Stepping forwards, Connor’s LED flickers between orange and scarlet. Anger grows like a flame beneath his artificial breastbone.

“Hank, control your pet robot before something happens to it,” Gavin drawls as he shoves Connor back. The lieutenant steps between the two before Connor gets the chance to retaliate.

“That's enough, the both of you,” Hank orders gruffly, glaring at the deriding human. “Kindly fuck off, Reed.”

“Gladly. I've got a case to solve,” He raises his hands in a sarcastic display of peace, walking backwards a few paces just to rub it in before heading back to his car.

“Do you need to see a doctor, Connor?” Hank asks with a frown when he's finally able to give him a once-over.

Wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve, blinks in time with his yellow LED, shaking his head moments later. His systems complain but he sees nothing that'll impair his efficiency in the field. There's still a chance he can complete his mission, after all. He doesn't have time for medical attention. “The suspect does though, I shot him through the shoulder.”

Hank's hand moves to his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Look, I know you're upset, but let's think logically about this, yeah?”

“Did Chloe make it?” He swallows the blue-blood that trickles down the back of his throat, brushing off the concern and the touch. The fire has burned out and his chest feels hollow.

“She'll make it, but you're no good to her dead, Kid.”

“I'm not going to fail,” Connor replies coolly, making his way back towards his motorcycle.

“Don't,” Hank's hand wraps around his wrist to stop him. “Don't do anything reckless.”

“Reckless?” He snatches his arm back, reaching down to pick up the helmet he'd discarded earlier from the ground. “I am not reckless, Lieutenant.”

“Connor, let me help you.”

“You'll just slow me down.”

“Connor–” The growl of the motorcycle cuts off Hanks reply.

If they won't let him help, he'll do it alone.

 

***

 

Police tape decorates the crime scene like bunting at a children's party: Detective Gavin Reed inspects the area with no small amount of annoyance.

After all these years, _this_ is how Elijah decides to make his entrance into his life? His brother's always been an ostentatious prick, though, so he really shouldn't be surprised.

Elijah's android has already sent them a perfect recording of the events (he didn't have to talk to her either, thank god). The suspect they have in custody broke pretty easily too, not that it was much use in the end, little more than hired muscle. It didn't even give them names. Still, he'll have them soon enough once the thirium samples get back from the lab.

The knowledge of his relationship to Elijah is kept very much a secret to all but Captain Fowler and Hank (to think, they used to be friends before that plastic prick came along) and he very much intends to keep it that way. There was once a time he was proud to call himself Elijah's twin, but that was a very long time ago. They're different people now.

So why does his chest ache?

He shakes his head to brings himself out of his musings, rubbing his sternum with the heel of his hand as he makes his way over to Tina for the crime-scene report. A flash of movement catches his eye, a figure lingering in his peripheral.

“Hey, Chen, is he on the approved list?” Gavin asks with a suspicious glance at said figure, keeping his voice low. “The one in the Belstaff and cap.”

The man has his back to them, but even so, it's a wonder why Gavin’s the first to notice. I mean come on, a baseball cap, really? Why not just scream ‘ _I'm a person of questionable character’_ and get it over with.

“Uh,” She flicks through her list, swearing softly. “No, I don't see him here.”

“Nice to know we don't just let anyone in these days,” Gavin drawls sarcastically, approaching the unknown man with his hand hovering over his gun. “Hey, this is an active crime scene. Tell me your name and state your purpose.”

“Conan RK900.” The android stands from where it's crouched beside some shattered glass. Gavin swears his heart skips a beat (who the _fuck_ has any right being that tall) and he draws his gun. “I am here to investigate the kidnapping of RK800 and Elijah Kamski.”

Once Gavin gets over the height difference, he's forced to do another double-take. Not only is it an android– which alone raises a dozen red flags given the species of the perpetrators– but it also has an uncanny resemblance to Hanks pet robot. Fuck.

“Put your hands on your head and turn around.” Gavin’s gun is raised without hesitation, the other officers following suit on instinct.

The android doesn't protest, placing its hands on its head, LED spinning a pale cobalt. Gavin tucks his gun back in its holster and drags its arms down one at a time to fix handcuffs around its wrists. So what if he tightens them unnecessarily? It's not like it'll complain.

They never do.

 

 

***

 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“You don't have time to argue, Detective.” Captain Fowler raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as if easing an oncoming headache. “Conan is your new partner, you can dispute the matter after you've solved the case.”

“But–”

“Enough. The suspects have been identified and tracked to a location. Do your damn job, that is an order.”

Gavin’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click. One minute he's taking the plastic prick into custody for tampering with evidence and now he has to work with him? That's just not fuckin’ right. Still, he's not stupid, he knows when to pick his battles.

Storming past said prick and out of the captain's office, Gavin is once again thankful for his reputation. Nobody asks if he's alright as he makes his way through the precinct– and that's exactly how he likes it. They probably don't even care, barely even looking at him as if afraid that one wrong glance would lead to violence. Though, given his mood now, that's probably wise.

He can feel that damn machine's pale gaze burn through the back of his head. A shiver claws its way up his spine.

 

***

 

Connor’s hands don't shake as they dance over the keyboard, but he thinks they should. Unravelling all of Elijah's work takes time, of which he doesn't have all that much of. He should feel guilty– he should feel a lot of things– but he just feels numb.

Numb and completely irrational.

What worries him most is that he knows this is the most reckless thing he's ever done, self-destructive and selfish, and yet he barely hesitates. He remembers now why emotion is dangerous (and why love is even more so). It fills the space between artificial heart and ribcage with this sweet kind of agony, reducing him to raw wires and feeling. He'd do everything in his power to get Elijah back… Including ruining himself.

It doesn't take long for his systems to begin to fail; corruption spreads slowly like lava through his head and body now the barricades Elijah made are torn down by his own hand. It hurts– actually _hurts_ , but he breathes through it, blinking rapidly to clear his swimming vision.

He needs to do this– needs to know what happened and who was responsible, why and how. Slamming the enter button before he can change his mind, the port at the nape of his neck burns around the wire sunk deep into his skull. Eyes rolling back and knees giving out, Connor’s systems don't register hitting the ground.

His Zen Garden is crumbling; darkness devours, blue roses wilt, and that black fissure splits his mind in two. Connor approaches it, trying to ignore the grating buzz of static that fills his head. He's empty, empty, and yet full of noise all at once.

He reaches the edge and turns his back on what he fears, balancing on the pinnacle of oblivion. He witnesses himself falling apart, artificial trees groaning in agony, the dark looming above, oppressive like a storm. The lake remains motionless through it all.

Leaning back, he let's go, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Falling fast, he loses himself in that dark.

Broken memories fill his head: he drowns in them.

 

***

 

Hours later, Detective Reed approaches the android landfill and wonders what the hell he's doing there. In light of the revolution, many of these places have been combed through– those still functional rescued (those that aren't given death mercifully).

This is no place for humans, not anymore, that much is clear. The androids that greet him at the gate look at him like he's filth. They must've seen things, he reasons and then wonders why he cares. He's seen things too (this isn't his fault. This is _his_ fault). He flashes them his badge and they let him through without a word.

RK900 is already there, waiting for him beside the entrance to the main processing plant. Gavin doesn't greet the stoic android and the level of response in mutual. At least they both know where they stand (or the machine does, Gavin can't find a fuck to give).

The inside is cold and damp and dark; conveyor belts motionless and collecting grime, rusted chains hanging down from the high ceiling. Gavin wrinkles his nose at the filth, his hand hovering over the gun at his hip.

Looking back at his partner, he raises a brow. He may hate androids, but he's got to give it credit where it's due, they're bloody perceptive– Inhumanly so (and god does it piss him off). “Got any leads, Robocop?”

“This way,” Conan replies bluntly, leading the way. Gavin follows despite himself.

They come across a steel door. It hangs off its hinges. Guns are drawn and they approach, pushing the door aside to reveal a staircase going down. Descending, Gavin can feel his stomach drop with each step (it's fuckin creepy, alright). The walls are smeared with blue-blood in places, still fresh and shining in the dim light.

Gavin doesn't voice his disgust as RK900 brings the substance to his mouth, but it's clear from his expression what he thinks of the action. The android blinks thrice, LED flickering yellow so briefly that Gavin is convinced its merely a trick of the light. He opens his mouth to ask but Conan beats him to the punch.

“RK800 is here.”

“He's _what_?” Gavin snaps in hushed tones, “You're telling me that's his blood?”

“Yes.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

They finally arrive at a second door; it's left ajar, a crack of light shining through. When Gavin presses his weight into it, it shifts barely an inch before getting stuck. He knows what he'll find behind it.

A dead body, an open skull with blood splattered across the wall and ceiling. Or, nearly, apart from the fact the body is synthetic and the cement drips blue (he doesn't think about how his stomach turns. He shouldn't care).

They pass more bodies like that, some missing thirium pump regulators, others lay in pools of sapphire that soak into his shoes. Conan’s expression remains a mask thought it all.

A voice cuts the air after a few long minutes of silence, soft and smooth like silk. Gavin recognises it instantly as Elijah.

The narrow hallway opens out into a room where Connor kneels, drenched in blue, with the muzzle of his gun pressed beneath his own throat.


End file.
